


The Sad Divorced Bastards Club

by out_there



Series: The Sad Divorced Bastards Club [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Divorced Lestrade, Divorced Mycroft, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 18:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12588420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: "Don't know if you're doing anything right now, but there's a few of us at Walker's on Craig's Court. Thought you might want to come down for a drink.""Why would you think that?" Mycroft says disbelievingly."Because you qualify as a member of the sad divorced bastards club," Greg says as Anderson returns from the bar, and sets two glasses on the table. Greg knows how it feels to find yourself living alone again. How empty a flat can feel, and how hard it can be to remember who you are without that other person. He knows how loneliness can creep in. "Might as well attend a meeting."





	The Sad Divorced Bastards Club

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to three people: Celli, Misbegotten and Tehomet. There was cheering and poking when the story needed it, and editing and Britpicking when it was done. Thank you.

Greg turns away from the rain hitting Baker Street's windows, and notices Sherlock's brother watching him. Well, watching his hands. Not the way Sherlock watches everything, sharp and noting it for future crimes, but in a wistfully curious way.

They're both waiting around in Sherlock's flat, awaiting Sherlock's imminent return. It's Sherlock, so "Be there soon" could mean anything from five minutes to five hours. Eyeing the downpour outside, Greg decides he can wait in the warmth a little longer.

But when he looks back, Sherlock's brother is watching his hands. Greg raises an eyebrow at Mycroft and clears his throat. Mycroft glances up and then looks away, clearly a little embarrassed. 

"What?" Greg prompts, curious now.

"Do you miss it?" Mycroft asks and Greg has no idea what he's talking about. "Wearing your wedding ring?"

Greg glances down at his left hand, the bare fingers. "At first. But you get used to it, and one day you wake up and it's just your new normal."

"Hmmm." Mycroft nods as if he's actually considering Greg's comment.

"That is an oddly precise question."

"I am an odd and precise person," Mycroft replies and Greg thinks that might have been a joke. Maybe. It's hard to tell with a Holmes.

Mycroft seems willing to sit in silence, but now Greg wants to know. "Why did you ask?"

"I wondered," Mycroft says slowly, looking down at Greg's hand, "if it makes it easier not to wear a constant reminder."

There's something about the way he says it: resigned and too mournful to be passing sympathy. Greg finds himself looking down at the ring Mycroft wears, although on the wrong hand. Outside of Baker Street, he's only ever seen Mycroft sitting alone in his cavernous office, or standing by government cars, flanked by assistants. He's never thought of the man as having a personal life. Certainly never considered him having a wife or an ex-wife.

"Are you married?" Greg asks, nosey as any other cop.

"No," Mycroft says calmly. He takes a breath and adds, "Not for several years now."

"My sympathies," Greg offers with a shrug. "Even when it's not bad, it's still horrible."

Mycroft stretches his right hand, and Greg can't help looking at the silver ring on the third finger. It's as smoothly polished as the rest of Mycroft.

"I considered removing it, but that could invite unwanted curiosity."

Greg nods. He understands how cloying everyone's sympathetic questions can be. And worse is the gossiping or the matchmaking offers. (For a few months, there were so many women who would be perfect for Greg, according to everyone else. The last thing he'd felt like was a blind date.)

"I get that," he says as Sherlock comes thundering up the stairs.

***

Greg almost forgets Mycroft Holmes and his formerly married state, until he's sitting in the pub with Anderson. They're waiting for Stevens, but he's just texted to say he'll be an hour late.

"Pint while we wait?" Anderson asks, and then at Greg's nod, goes to get the first round.

It's a semi-regular thing they do: pints down the pub while nobody mentions their divorce. It started as a way to stop Anderson imploding along with his marriage (when he started obsessing over Sherlock Holmes, everyone had been worried), but it's mostly an excuse for a night out. A reason other than work to leave the house and be presentable for human company.

On a whim, Greg pulls out his phone and finds Mycroft's number. (It's listed as "Sherlock emergency" in his contacts.)

"Hi, it's Greg Lestrade," he says when it's answered.

"Obviously," Mycroft says patronisingly. Sometimes the Holmes brothers have more in common than either would admit.

"Don't know if you're doing anything right now, but there's a few of us at Walker's on Craig's Court. Thought you might want to come down for a drink."

"Why would you think that?" Mycroft says disbelievingly.

"Because you qualify as a member of the sad divorced bastards club," Greg says as Anderson returns from the bar, and sets two glasses on the table. "Might as well attend a meeting."

"Are there rules for this meeting?"

"You can talk about anything except the ex and the divorce," Greg says. Anderson looks curious and mouths, 'Who?' but Greg just shakes his head. "If you've got time, we'll be here for a couple hours."

***

Greg doesn't really expect Mycroft to show up. Casual drinks at a pub don't seem like his thing.

Then he looks up and sees Mycroft paused in the doorway, three-piece suit and black umbrella, like he's just come from the office. On a Saturday afternoon. His mouth pinches in disapproval as he scans the room.

Greg waves to get his attention. Mycroft arches a brow when he sees him. He glances at the bar, and Greg nods in understanding.

When he turns back to the table, Anderson is staring at him. "You invited Sherlock's brother?" he hisses. 

"Yeah," Greg replies at a normal volume. "What of it?"

"He's terrifying." Anderson looks over his shoulder, as if Mycroft is doing anything more threatening than ordering a drink at the bar.

"Don't be ridiculous." If you ask Greg, both of the Holmes brothers have an absurd dramatic streak. If it's not swirling black coats and cryptic assertions, it's anonymous black cars and an air of mystery. Greg thinks it's boredom from being smarter than everyone around them. Doesn't make them any more dangerous than a thug with a gun or any normal, decent person pushed too far. If the job's taught Greg anything, it's that anyone can be dangerous if pushed far enough.

Anderson eyes his half full glass, then looks up at the bar. He throws the rest of his drink back in three gulping swallows. "I'm going," he says, standing up and fleeing. 

Greg watches him go and fights the urge to laugh. Anderson works hard, he's focused and not a bad guy, but he's easily spooked. At heart, he belongs in a lab somewhere with a group of other science geeks.

"Did I miss a joke?" Mycroft asks, sitting down with glass of golden liquid. He looks vaguely amused by Anderson's sudden exit.

"I think you caught the punch line," Greg replies.

***

"Did you go drinking with Mycroft?"

Sherlock is supposed to be staring at the dead body John's currently bent over. That's why Greg invited him to the crime scene. Not to stride into Greg's personal space and peer at him like an insect under a magnifying glass.

Greg points to the corpse. "Dead body, Sherlock."

"It makes far more sense than you drinking with Mycroft." Sherlock glances over his shoulder, a split second glance at John, and adds, "You need to check his greenhouse. The murder weapon will be there."

"Go check it," Greg says to an officer in uniform. If Greg were the type to be easily rattled, the ease of Sherlock's deductions would be infuriating. But he's spent enough years on the force to just be thankful that the case won't drag out and he'll be home at a decent hour. "Anything else you can tell us?"

Sherlock raises a haughty brow. "Mycroft doesn't go drinking."

"Says the lightweight," Greg replies. He's seen Sherlock giddy and ridiculous after three champagnes. Mycroft drank two double shots of Glenfiddich and didn't show a sign of drunken excess.

"I didn't say he doesn't drink alcohol. He doesn't go out drinking with the general public. So why were you out drinking with him?"

The real answer is both incredibly simple and something Sherlock won't understand: sympathy. Greg knows how it feels to find yourself living alone again. How empty a flat can feel, and how hard it can be to remember who you are without that other person. He knows how loneliness can creep in. "How is that any business of yours?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. He reminds Greg of an overgrown cat. "Hmmm."

"Go be useful," Greg says, shooing Sherlock outside. Begrudgingly, Sherlock goes.

***

Greg knows he's occasionally stubborn for the sake of it. Bloody-minded, his mum would say, and contrary. Sometimes, being told what he should do is the surest way to make him do the opposite.

If Sherlock hadn't tried to push for a justification, Greg might not have gone out of his way to invite Mycroft out for drinks again. He warns Anderson in advance, and Anderson predictably can't make it. Nicholls and Grant drop by, and Greg doesn't miss the way that Mycroft sits back in his chair, lets the conversation flow around him.

On a whim, Greg suggests getting together the next weekend and doesn't bother inviting the others. As expected, Mycroft actually contributes to the conversation when it's just the two of them.

He isn't bad company.

***

It falls into something regular. Every week or two, they'll sit over a few drinks and talk. Greg always picks a place near Whitehall and Mycroft always looks like he's stepped out of the office, whether it's Thursday night or late Sunday morning.

At first, Greg talks shop, telling stories of Sherlock's latest social blunders. Mycroft doesn't mention anything about his work but he shares stories of Sherlock's youth.

Then it somehow becomes about family stories and mundane annoyances like Greg's loud upstairs neighbour, and binge-watching Netflix. Mycroft's easy to talk to and always has an answering opinion, even if it's a clear lack of interest.

"You don't think Rosie's cute?" Greg asks, torn between amusement and disbelief. Greg is a soft touch for kids; he always has been. "You don't have the urge to grin and coo when you see her?"

"Not in the least," Mycroft replies. He's nursing his second scotch. He usually caps himself at two. (Greg thinks he must have been nervous that first time. Drank more than he meant to.) "I don't harbour any ill will towards her, but I've never been overcome by the biological urge to protect and dote upon something small with disproportionately large eyes."

***

Sherlock continues to sulk about the entire thing. One glance at Greg and he huffs. "Why are you still spending time with Mycroft?"

Sherlock's wearing his dressing gown, so Greg knows he's not going to be helpful unless it's a really weird case. None of his current cases fit the bill.

"More importantly," John asks from the armchair, "what do you talk about?"

Greg shrugs. "Last Sunday we talked about Game of Thrones."

"Mycroft watches Game of Thrones?" John asks doubtfully.

"No." Greg had been talking about it for twenty minutes before he realised that. "But he's very good at predicting who's going to do what next."

"You shouldn't be so comfortable around him," Sherlock declares from his sprawl on the couch. Greg ignores that as another sign of sibling rivalry.

***

Nothing annoys Greg more than feeling like a Luddite. He isn't a dinosaur: he likes smartphones and modern technology as much as the next person. But he hates being told about the latest app he apparently should have downloaded months ago. Who needs a map of every city street they've visited? What's the point of that?

"I honestly don't know," Mycroft responds to Greg's sour complaint. "The blame lies with people with too much time on their hands."

"Nothing better to do than walk the city streets?"

"Or pretend to outrun the living dead." Mycroft's tone suggests he holds the same amount of affection for zombies and voluntary running: bugger all. "Not every technological marvel is an improvement."

Greg takes a swallow of his beer, nodding. "Then there's the whole swipe left, swipe right thing. When did meeting people become so difficult?"

"When people started paying more attention to their phones than the people around them." Mycroft allows himself a small smile. It's mostly a quirk of the lips that suggests his version of a smile, but the amusement is clear. "There is one upside. The thought of dating by app makes celibacy look appealing."

The comment catches Greg by surprise. He splutters half a mouthful of beer against his hand. He pats his pockets down for a tissue; Mycroft passes him a white cotton handkerchief.

"Thanks," he says, wiping his chin clean. He makes a mental note to launder it before returning it. "I'm sure it used to be easier to meet people."

"It was easier to orchestrate an introduction," Mycroft allows with a tilt of his head. "Otherwise, it hasn't changed greatly."

Greg remembers when all it took was a smile and a friendly hello to get a girl to talk to him. It didn't take much more to get a date for Friday night or convince someone to go home with him. He's too old and worn for that to work now. 

Greg takes another look at Mycroft: the sleek suit, the red silk tie and pocket square, the straight posture. All signs that suggest money and power, things that don't erode as the years pass by. "Maybe it gets easier for some of us."

Mycroft pulls a face. "Not at all. I only meant that it's as challenging as it ever was."

"Really?" It's hard to imagine Mycroft having trouble, not with that money and style. Maybe younger at university, Greg could imagine him serious and intense, but even then... Surely there would have been a few women drawn to that sheer intelligence and firm self-control.

"I've never fit the stereotype enough to find it easy."

"Huh." Mycroft does appear to be that kind of civil servant, born into the right family and attended the right school, and only interested in his own social circle. But he's much sharper than that stereotype allows. Greg can't imagine him as the type interested in polo and seeing everyone at Ascot. Or whatever it is the other half do.

Then again, it's hard to imagine the Holmes brothers ever being considered normal or average. The very idea makes Greg's brain hurt.

"Clubs and discos," Mycroft says, pulling a truly revolted face, mouth pulling down, brows scrunched together, forehead creased. "Honestly. And don't get me started on musical theatre."

For a moment, Greg wonders if he's missed something. He has no idea how that relates to picking up women. And then... Oh. Stereotypes. Stereotypes that like clubbing and musicals.

Greg blinks at his beer. He tries to keep his face blank while his mind furiously cycles through their conversations, looking for proof that he's being silly, jumping to stupid conclusions. But Mycroft's never mentioned his ex by name. They don't talk about their exes, so no wonder it hasn't come up.

He said married. And divorced. And yes, of course Greg knows that doesn't automatically make Mycroft straight, but he hadn't considered anything else.

Rather than risk saying something, Greg takes a long drink. The beer doesn't have any answers but it's a good distraction.

"If it makes you feel better," Mycroft says, glancing down at his own glass of whisky, "your assumptions were supported by the balance of probability."

It shouldn't make Greg feel embarrassed. There's no reason for Greg to feel like he's stumbled across an intimate secret. If it was a secret, Mycroft wouldn't have brought it up. "I just didn't... realise," Greg says sheepishly.

Mycroft arches an eyebrow. "Does it make a difference?"

"No, course not," Greg says reflexively. Then he thinks about it. "Makes no difference. An ex is an ex."

***

It doesn't make a difference. It certainly doesn't make a visible difference. There's no reason for Sherlock to smirk and announce, "So you've realized you're dating my brother."

Greg looks around the open office, sergeants working at computers or making calls. Not one head looks up. Over the years of Sherlock's help, they've developed unwritten procedures for dealing with him. Personal deductions about fellow officers are best ignored entirely.

"Come in," Greg says, opening his office door. He closes it behind John. "And I'm not dating Mycroft."

"John, if I asked you out for a drink, would you assume it was a date?"

"I'd assume it was a stakeout for a case," John replies with a long-suffering expression.

"If it was someone else, someone who has mentioned being single and available?"

John shrugs. "Maybe. But it could be friends meeting for a pint."

"A pint? Mycroft?" Sherlock asks scathingly.

"Seems weird, yeah," John allows, "but Mycroft dating is much stranger."

It's unofficial procedure not to antagonise Sherlock. It never gets you anywhere in the long run. Still, sometimes Greg's sure Sherlock annoys _him_ on purpose. "Enough, you two. We're mates, that's it."

"Of course," Sherlock says, voice thick with sarcasm. "Mycroft's spending time with you because he finds you intellectually stimulating."

Greg takes a deep breath. He reminds himself that despite the intelligence, he wouldn't want to be Sherlock Holmes for all the tea in China. "Back to the case. What did you find out about the gardener?"

***

He mulls it over. Greg knows he shouldn't say anything about it, but Sherlock's sly jabs keep bothering him. What he has with Mycroft is friendship. Early, getting-to-know-you friendship and maybe that looks a little bit like casual dating but... it's not. He invited Mycroft for drinks, not a date.

Mycroft would know that. Right?

Greg should ignore Sherlock's teasing, but instead he hears himself say, "Sherlock thinks we're dating," and carefully waiting for Mycroft's reply.

"No, he doesn't," Mycroft says with certainty. "But he knows that suggesting it will make you uncomfortable."

Actually, that sounds like Sherlock. "He's doing it to annoy me?"

"Not you, per se. It's brotherly... Hmm. Antagonism, perhaps?" Mycroft turns an empty glass in his long fingers, holding it up against the light. To Greg, it's just a cut glass tumbler; he wonders what Mycroft sees when he looks at it. "He's never understood self-control."

Some people nod along, pretending they follow the conversation so they don't look like idiots. Greg's learned that with a Holmes, you have to ask outright. "What?"

"There is a certain satisfaction from being close to something you want without allowing yourself to have it," Mycroft says, which makes it sound as if he fancies Greg, and that... That can't be right. It just doesn't compute. Greg's smart enough for a DI, but his dreams of making DCI got scuppered when he started bending rules to let Sherlock help. He's fifty-one and he's not getting any younger. He's a decent enough bloke, but he's not extraordinary in any way.

Mycroft Holmes is extraordinary. The staggering intellect, the way he thrives in a world that is far more complicated than Greg can imagine. He has no idea what sort of man would catch Mycroft's attention, but it wouldn't be someone ordinary.

The silence has dragged on a little too long when Mycroft places his glass down on the table. "Do relax," Mycroft chides softly. "I'm hardly going to do anything untoward. I'm well aware this is a casual acquaintance, nothing more."

Which answers the question Greg wanted to ask, but raises a lot more. Like, what sort of man was Mycroft married to and what does Mycroft see in Greg? And more importantly, why does the idea of Mycroft fancying him feel like a puzzle to be solved? Why isn't Greg dismissing it and ignoring it?

***

The ex should be the easiest thing to check, but that's where Greg draws a blank. Official record searches reveal nothing, unless Mycroft is a false name. (But who would go by "Mycroft" if they didn't have to?) Greg knows from experience that searching for details on Mycroft Holmes is a fruitless endeavour. Apart from a brief mention on the Ministry of Transport site, the man is a ghost online. Despite the wide-ranging publicity Sherlock and his false suicide created, not one article mentioned Mycroft by name. It's impressive. Greg admires anyone who can control a roomful of reporters.

He calls in a favour and gets access to the physical archives of civil ceremonies. It takes an entire Tuesday, but eventually he finds it. The ornate M on Mycroft's signature makes him smile; of course the man's penmanship would be precise.

The other signature as an illegible scrawl, but the name is Jeremy Whyte. Greg takes a photo on his phone, and waits until he gets home to start googling.

Where Mycroft is a ghost, Jeremy Whyte is on Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter. He's dark haired and attractive, with a strong jawline and dark eyes. A few years younger than Mycroft, eight years younger than Greg. There are photos of him lounging about in casual clothes, an effortless arty cool that the camera loves, and older photos of him on the stage, in tights and form-fitted T-shirts, well muscled thighs and zero percent body fat.

There are photos scattered across the internet and there's even an interview on the Guardian website. It's seven years old and doesn't mention being married, but it does talk about his choreography for a new show. (Does ballet have 'shows'? Maybe they're 'performances'. Greg wouldn't have a clue.) It's the kind of article Greg would have flicked past to get to the footy results.

It seems unlikely that someone so public could have been part of Mycroft's life. Greg keeps researching, even if it probably is the wrong person. There are photos stretching back twenty years, back to grainy shots of student productions. As hard as Greg looks, he can't find any proof that this man ever met Mycroft, let alone married him.

***

He has his doubts, until Mycroft hands over a manila file the next time they meet. "You could have just asked," Mycroft says pointedly. "You didn't have to spend a day trawling through dusty archive boxes."

Greg shrugs. He was being nosey, but he knows he'd do it again. "I'll keep that in mind for next time," he says, opening the folder. It's a dossier on Jeremy Whyte, basic information followed by surveillance reports. Beneath that, there are some loose photos, taken with the low resolution of actual film. The first is Mycroft looking so very young, hair long and curling like Sherlock's, in trousers and a buttoned up white shirt. He's standing amongst a group of young men, most of them look like university students. On the far side is Jeremy Whyte, dark hair falling over one eye as he smiles widely for the camera. In the next photo, Mycroft is a few years older, thirty maybe, although it's hard to tell between the baby-faced smile and the severe three-piece suit. Jeremy stands beside him, one hand on Mycroft's arm, his face pressed against Mycroft's shoulder. He looks happy and carefree, possibly drunk, but Greg's attention is drawn to Mycroft's expression. He looks surprised, eyes wide and brow high, and his smile looks uncertain around the edges, like he can't believe his luck. He looks amazed.

Greg wants to paw through the rest of the photos, wants to stare at them and pull them apart but he doesn't need to. It's obvious that Mycroft was once in love with someone gorgeous, someone amazingly good at what they did. Someone who brought beauty into the world and clearly captivated Mycroft.

He closes the folder and slides it back to Mycroft. "Thanks. I was just curious."

"Curiosity sated?"

Greg grins. "For today."

***

Greg keeps circling around the problem. He pictures it like a crime on the whiteboard: facts and people, trying to tie it together into a narrative that makes sense. Sherlock might look at a crime scene and see signposts to the guilty party, but Greg's used to noting down everything, following all avenues until something pays off.

He starts with what he knows: himself. The why of it, or what Mycroft might see in him. He's not young and fit, but he's attractive for his age. He's carrying a few extra pounds and the late nights show under his eyes, but he's still a relatively handsome man. People still smile back when he smiles at them. Maybe Sherlock's right and Mycroft's interest is entirely superficial, but Greg doubts it.

Mycroft works hard at a job without public recognition; he seems like he'd appreciate a strong work ethic. He might understand that there's more to picking a career than money or fame; sometimes it's about using your strengths for the public good.

Greg figures it also has to do with Sherlock. After all, Sherlock is Mycroft's most vulnerable point. For all the cool demeanour, when it comes to Sherlock, Greg's seen Mycroft worry and fret like the rest of human race. When Sherlock got knocked unconscious by the Russian mob, Greg had been the one to call Mycroft. He'd been the one waiting by the hospital desk when Mycroft arrived, striding down the linoleum floor, face pinched with fear. Maybe it's not much, being the one to take Mycroft to Sherlock's bed, offering to fetch him tea while Mycroft skimmed through Sherlock's medical charts, but maybe it was enough to catch Mycroft's attention. He's spent years working with Sherlock and watching out for him. God help him, Greg likes Sherlock, as difficult as Sherlock can be.

Mycroft's as devoted to Sherlock as he is to public service, so there's a few things they have in common. Maybe Mycroft's interest isn't as ridiculous as it first appeared.

***

There's something flattering about being the object of someone's affections. Even if Mycroft doesn't flirt in any way, it's still... there. Mycroft hasn't mentioned it again, but he also hasn't made any attempt to deny it or backpedal.

Greg hasn't brought it up either, but he finds himself spending a few extra minutes picking out a shirt. He drags out his gym membership and makes an effort to go at least once a week. He thinks twice before taking the last chocolate doughnut. (He still takes it. It's chocolate with chocolate flakes, and no point just leaving it on the office table to go stale. But he thinks twice before grabbing it.)

It's flattering, he tells himself. A little bit of harmless vanity. Nothing wrong with liking the idea of someone finding you attractive. But when he finds himself watching Mycroft's long, elegant fingers or worse, noticing Mycroft's always shaved cheeks and wondering if they're as smooth as they look, if he'd be able to feel stubble under his fingertips, if beard burn would be a problem... Well.

Apart from a few wild nights in his twenties, more drunken fumbling and desperation than anything else, he's never considered guys. Not for anything serious. And there's no way that anything with Mycroft Holmes wouldn't be serious: the man doesn't have a frivolous bone in his body.

Girls were easier. They made sense. Dating follows a simple road map: date, sleep together, move in, get married and have kids. Greg had wanted that, to be a husband and a father, and that was so much easier with women.

When he really thinks about it, that wouldn't have been impossible with a guy. A lot harder, but not impossible. And it didn't work out anyway. It should have been easy with Jenny, but instead there were those late nights she had to work, those times when he'd been jealous and insecure and felt like a paranoid bastard, until he found out he was right all along. Year after year, kids just hadn't happened and Jenny didn't like the idea of IVF, and it became one of those opportunities that passed him by.

"You know, I always wanted kids," Greg says as a particularly adorable six year old plays with her younger brother. "It didn't happen, clearly."

Mycroft tilts his head, raising a questioning eyebrow. For a man who seems so cold on first impression, he has very expressive features when he lets his guard down.

"I never saw the appeal," Mycroft says.

"Someone to look after and take care of. Someone to guide and protect. Watch them grow from causing you sleepless nights to living a happy life of their own."

"I have Sherlock for that."

Greg laughs. He's made the same joke himself. "You never saw yourself with kids?"

"It was less that I was against the idea," Mycroft says deliberately, "and more that I wasn't willing to actively lobby for it."

The ex didn't want kids, Greg translates, and Mycroft didn't want them enough to fight over it. "What did you lobby for?"

"Civil ceremonies, although I'm not entirely sure that was a success." 

For a moment, Greg thinks Mycroft's joking, but he seems entirely serious. "In what way?"

"I was impatient and assumed marriage would follow quickly after. In hindsight, it might have been better to wait a few extra years and use the social pressure to legalise gay marriage sooner."

***

When he looks at Mycroft, Greg can't shake the thought that this isn't who he pictured for himself. Even ignoring the guy thing -- and Greg's sneaking suspicion that maybe the path of least resistance hadn't been the right road for him -- there's so much to Mycroft that's just... Different.

There's the voice and the mannerisms, the suits and the decades old whisky. None of them are bad things, but it's so different to what Greg considers normal that he can't imagine their lives fitting together. Bad TV and a few beers, bowls of crisps and peanuts, Greg considers that a good night in. Mycroft seems like the heavy book by a fireplace type.

For as long as Greg's been trying to kiss people, Greg's always been attracted to vivacious, life of the party types. People who thrive in a crowd, loud and joyous, fun to be around. Mycroft is the complete opposite of that. He's serious and restrained. One on one, he's interesting and intense, very certain of the world. In a crowd, he goes quiet and watches people.

For all that Mycroft seems cool and untouchable, he is devoted to the ideals he values. He cares deeply. Not in the way Greg's used to, physically affectionate and open, but it's genuine.

In a lot of ways, Jenny was his type. Flirty and affectionate, happiest laughing along in a crowd or pulling him up on the dance floor. She was fun and exciting, and they had great times together. Until he started working longer hours and she started having great times with someone else.

She'd been carefree and unrestrained, and he couldn't wait to tumble her into bed. Mycroft is completely different to that, but Greg still finds himself wondering what Mycroft would be like. Would he be quietly demanding like he is to the bar staff, insisting on a full nip? Would he take himself too seriously to laugh in bed? Without those layers, would he be reticent or shameless?

It's none of Greg's business. He's not interested in Mycroft Holmes. It'd never work. He's just... curious.

***

Weekends get busy from mid-November, catching up with friends you haven't seen since last Christmas, so Greg doesn't see Mycroft for a few weeks. He figures they can catch up at Sherlock's Christmas party in early December, but he's disappointed when Mycroft doesn't show. Not heartbroken, just... He's wearing a new shirt and got his hair cut a few days ago. It's still a nice night, meeting Molly's new boyfriend and watching Rosie careening around the living room, but he wishes Mycroft had come.

He's more disappointed than he expected he'd be.

When he asks if Mycroft RSVP'd, Sherlock waves the question away with one hand.

"I avoid Mycroft in December," Sherlock says, and John turns to give him a disbelieving look.

"You avoid Mycroft all year round," John points out. 

"He mopes in December. D-Day, Christmas, his birthday, New Year's," Sherlock counts out on four long fingers, "and he's a misery for all of them. Best to avoid him entirely, Lestrade."

Greg's confused. He's seen Mycroft's driving license. "His birthday's in May."

"And Mycroft would never lie on official paperwork. He certainly wouldn't use it to pretend to be a few years younger than he actually is."

If Greg was a better cop, he'd be outraged at official documentation being falsified. However, Greg is a realist and knows the Holmes brothers too well to manage even the slightest offense.

"I can understand changing the year," John says with a rueful grin, "but why the month?"

"More opportunities for cake over the year?" Sherlock suggests snidely. The real answer is probably just because Mycroft can. Mycroft tends to amuse himself in strange little ways. 

Molly waves at them from the kitchen, Rosie in her arms, and John heads off with a nod. "Excuse me."

"What's D-Day?" Greg asks and Sherlock gives him a long suffering look, as if Greg's being especially thick. "I wouldn't ask if I knew, Sherlock."

"You've spent enough time around my brother to know him," Sherlock says. He pauses as if he expects Greg to understand it from one little hint. Sometimes talking to Sherlock is like doing a cryptic crossword: all of the annoyance with a much lower sense of achievement at the end. "Honestly, Lestrade."

"Explain in small words," Greg replies. "Pretend I'm an idiot."

"Pretend?" Sherlock's arched eyebrow is completely unnecessary. "Mycroft takes himself too seriously and he's very used to success. Of course he would memorialize his biggest personal failure by spending the day moping with alcohol."

Greg gets it. "D-Day, as in the anniversary of his divorce. Just before Christmas?"

"In time for the new year." Sherlock shrugs, for once seeming sympathetic. "They'd been living apart for years by then but the timing seems… unfortunate."

"Was it messy? The divorce?" Greg shouldn't ask. He hasn't asked Mycroft directly for good reason: it's intrusive and really none of his concern. But if Sherlock's willing to talk, Greg will take all the insider information he can get.

"I don't know. I was officially dead at the time." Sherlock glances around the room, gaze falling to the hideous wallpaper and going unfocused as he thinks. "Given their tendency to avoid conflict, it would have been calm. Probably all done by letter and lawyers. Jeremy had already moved out, and Mycroft would have thrown himself into work. It's how he had the time to track down Moriarty's network without telling MI6 I was still alive."

"You never talked about it?"

"Mycroft doesn't share his feelings," Sherlock says sharply. Greg suspects the blame for that lies on both the brothers – they each like to pretend they're made of logic and circuits rather than body and soul – but Sherlock probably tried, in his way. Sherlock's just not good with people, really not good, and Mycroft isn't an easy person in any sense.

"What were the dates? His birthday? The divorce?"

Sherlock gives him a narrow look, as if he knows Greg's up to something but doesn't know what it is yet. "28th and 21st, respectively."

Greg notes it down in his phone.

***

Greg gives it a few days before he calls. "Hi," he says when Mycroft picks up, "a little birdie told me your birthday's coming up."

"Not for some time," Mycroft says, sounding a little distracted. Multitasking with something else, then. Greg would worry but if Mycroft needed to get off the phone, he wouldn't be shy to say so. "My birthday is in May."

"Sherlock says it's the 28th of December."

"Of the two of us, who is more likely to remember my actual birthday?"

"Of the two of you, I think Sherlock's the one less likely to lie about it," Greg replies. "I'd believe Sherlock didn't know it, but he wouldn't quote a date that was wrong."

There's a telling pause. "If you're falsifying records, it's good to know the changes won't be detected." That sounds like a very reasonable rationale; Greg doesn't believe it at all.

"Got sick of getting combined birthday and Christmas gifts?"

"Every. Year. Honestly if we hadn't put a moratorium on gift exchanges as adults, my parents would still do it."

"So what are the birthday plans? Trip away, big bash?"

"A quiet dinner will more than suffice," Mycroft says tartly.

"We should get together and celebrate," Greg says, as if he's forgotten that he's visiting friends for the holidays. There's nothing big planned but it was a good reason to refuse working Christmas. He's been stuck on that shift for the last three years. "No, I'm up in Scotland that week."

"Then we'll take the birthday wishes as read," Mycroft says.

"Don't be silly, we'll catch up earlier. Not this weekend, I'm busy. And next weekend's no better. How about next Friday? Little close to Christmas, but I'm free."

Mycroft takes a short breath. "The 21st? I'm not sure I can make that."

It's prevarication, not a refusal. "Check your calendar. We'll go somewhere fancy, have a nice dinner. Celebrate with a bit of style."

"It sounds very tempting," Mycroft says cautiously, clearly willing to be convinced.

"Come on, Mycroft, it's your birthday," Greg wheedles. "Indulge a little."

"Very well." Mycroft sounds wary, but Greg will take what he can get. "I'll make reservations."

***

To be honest, Greg had expected somewhere old-fashioned and ridiculously intimidating. A restaurant overlooking London or the grand dining room of the Ritz. (He'd been there once on a poisoning case. He couldn't decide if it reminded him more of a museum or an ornate church. Either way, not somewhere he'd want to eat.)

He's dressed in the best suit he owns -- the one usually reserved for court cases -- and he's prepared to hobnob with hoity-toities if he has to, because this is Mycroft's choice. The whole point of coming is to make him feel better. To make sure Mycroft isn't sitting alone, nursing old wounds and stewing in misery. And if that means sitting somewhere that makes Greg feel out of place, like a cheap imposter who doesn't belong and doesn't know which fork is for prawns, so be it.

He's a little reassured when they pull up to an address in Soho. It's still expensive: there's three types of caviar on the menu, along with truffles and lobster. But there aren't multiple forks set out at the tables, and the inside is all art deco in golds and blues. It feels like stepping into the 1920s.

"This is really cool," Greg says as they're shown to their table. It's a booth up the back, padded benches curve around the table. The high backs give a surprising amount of privacy when Greg sits down. There's a little plaque by their table with a round, gold button. It says 'Press for Champagne'.

Mycroft looks perfectly at ease here. In his faintly checked suit and polka-dot tie, he looks like he belongs in the whimsy of this place. "You sound surprised."

"I was expecting somewhere--" posh, Greg doesn't say, instead switching to, "traditional."

"This place has its own traditions," Mycroft says, reaching forward to press the button for champagne. When the waiter arrives with bubbly in hand, Mycroft glances at him in question.

"Why not?" Greg replies. Last time he had champagne was John's wedding. It's not a favourite drink but in for a penny, in for a pound.

***

As they peruse the menus, Mycroft says, "I would advise saving room for dessert," and Greg flicks to the desserts to see why. He's tempted by the sour cherry soufflé but the chocolate glory sounds too good to resist. Chocolate and chocolate mousse and chocolate brownies sounds like a great combination.

By the time the desserts arrive, Greg's had an incredible roast cod and enough champagne to leave him light-headed and laughing. Greg blames that little button. It's far too much fun to press it and have a waiter suddenly appear.

The dessert looks incredible. A golden sphere of chocolate that cracks and melts as the waiter pours heated dark chocolate over it. It's a work of art that makes Greg's mouth water.

"Is this the reason you picked this place?" Greg asks as the waiter turns his attention to Mycroft's plate and repeats the ritual, pouring dark chocolate down in lines until the shell falls away in segments.

"One of the reasons," Mycroft allows, tilting his champagne glass. He tends to raise his pinky when he drinks. It's such a harmless quirk but it keeps making Greg want to snigger every time Mycroft does it.

Greg picks up his spoon, not sure where he wants to start. Should he scoop up the dark chocolate while it's still warm? Should he pick at one of the wafer thin segments? Or should he approach it boldly, go straight for the mousse sitting inside? He decides to go for the prize, and digs out a spoonful of mousse. It's obscenely good. Rich and sweet and meltingly light on his tongue. He closes his eyes to taste it.

He opens them again when he hears the filthy moan Mycroft makes around the first mouthful. It's not a loud sound, but it's low and lewdly honest. It's the moan of a man overcome by physical pleasures.

For a moment, all Greg can think of is kissing Mycroft until he makes that sound again. Right now, Mycroft would taste of chocolate and champagne. Greg would only have to lean across the table.

Mycroft looks up from his plate and freezes. There's a twitch of an eyebrow and then a widening of the eyes as he stares at Greg. He runs his tongue across his top lip and Greg can't help watching the movement.

"Oh," Mycroft says, sounding a little breathless. "How unexpected. There's nothing in your file that suggests..."

"No, there wouldn't be. There was nothing... serious."

Mycroft blinks a few times, clearly processing. "It would be a crime not to finish dessert," he announces, but there's a flush high on his cheeks that makes Greg grin.

"Okay," Greg agrees, "dessert first."

***

They don't rush dessert. It's too good and too rich to rush. They take their time and Greg presses the button for another glass of champagne. Mycroft does moan again, just once, when he gets to the brownie base. Greg shifts in his seat and lets his own appetites show on his face.

"It's an indulgence," Mycroft says primly when he glances up. "Once a year is forgivable."

"I'd eat it once a week, if I wasn't terrified of my dentist," Greg says, and quickly adds, "My doctor wouldn't be impressed either."

"Trying not to actively irritate those you rely on is a good strategy."

"Be worth it, though." Absently, Greg runs a finger around the curve of his plate, catching the last hint of chocolate. It's bad manners but no one else can see them in here, so Greg quickly sucks his finger clean. He pushes his plate away so he's not tempted to do it again. "What would your doc say?"

"The same thing he always does," Mycroft says, slicing another thin sliver of mousse onto his spoon. "That I'm as healthy as a horse."

Greg almost makes a joke about riding Mycroft. His self-control wins and he stops himself from saying anything crass. Maybe it shows in his expression because Mycroft gives him a quick, hungry once over and then looks down at his plate.

Greg excuses himself to use the facilities. As he's washing his hands, he takes a good look at his reflection. He's flushed from the alcohol, grinning like a kid on a sugar high, but he's looking good. No rings under the eyes, thanks to a few decent nights sleep. Cleanly shaved and cheeks still smooth to the touch. He checks his teeth for any stray bits of food and splashes some water on his face, and gives himself one last check in the mirror. It's as good as he gets these days, but it's enough.

When he gets back to the table, Mycroft's standing. "Ready to go?" Mycroft asks.

"Yeah." Greg takes two steps towards the door, thinking of Mycroft, thinking of kissing him somewhere less crowded, thinking of licking that last hint of chocolate from his mouth -- and then remembers the bill. "We need to pay."

"Taken care of," Mycroft says firmly. "The car's waiting outside."

It's smooth, Greg will give him that, but that was a lot of champagne and those meals weren't cheap. "I'll pay my half."

Mycroft tuts at him. "Don't squabble for the sake of pride."

He wants to pay his share, but it's not worth ruining the night over. "Since it's your birthday, fine. But next time, we split the bill."

"Next time," Mycroft repeats in a smugly satisfied tone. "Yes, next time we'll split it."

When they climb into the back of that sleek, black car, the privacy screen is already up. The driver pulls into traffic without asking where they're going. Greg doesn't care. He just slides across the seat, leans one hand on Mycroft's thigh and kisses the man.

Mycroft Holmes is not slow on the uptake. He kisses back with dizzying abandon, sliding a hand around the back of Greg's neck. His fingers are cool against Greg's skin, playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck while Greg sucks on Mycroft's lower lip.

Mycroft makes that quiet little moan, free hand tangling in Greg's shirt, the back of his knuckles pressing against Greg's ribs. Beneath his hand, Greg can feel Mycroft shift restlessly as they kiss, can feel the twitch of muscle in those long legs. He pulls back to breathe, dropping a kiss to Mycroft's chin, to his smooth cheek, to the edge of his jaw. He runs his tongue over soft skin, feels the hard press of bone beneath, but he can't find a hint of stubble.

"Gregory," Mycroft whispers, sounding hushed and overwhelmed. Absolutely nobody calls him Gregory, but Greg likes the way it sounds in Mycroft's mouth, likes the little groan that comes just after it.

He nuzzles down the tendon of Mycroft's neck and Mycroft's fingers clench on his neck. "Beneath the collar," Mycroft says, too desperately breathless to be an order. "Please."

But that means ties and buttons, so Greg kisses Mycroft instead, until there's no tease of chocolate left on his tongue. Until Mycroft's dragging him closer, arms tight around Greg's shoulders, until they're both twisted sideways on the seat, pressed chest to chest.

The car stops and for once, Greg curses a lack of traffic in London. Where's a traffic jam when you really want one? He leans back in his seat and looks around. They're at his street. "Coming up?"

"Unfortunately I have an early conference call." Recently kissed is a good look on Mycroft: eyes bright and cheeks flushed. He looks rather pleased with himself. "This development was unexpected."

"Otherwise you'd have cleared your calendar?" Greg asks and the heated look Mycroft gives him leaves him in no doubt. Then something occurs to Mycroft and his expression cools. "What is it?"

"You'll be away until after New Years," Mycroft says and Greg nods. "Might be for the best."

"Meaning?"

"You've had a lot of champagne," Mycroft says patronisingly, as if Greg doesn't know his own limits, as if this was an alcohol-fuelled mistake instead of an impetuous decision. "It will give you time to reconsider."

It's disappointing to see Mycroft pull himself up straight, raising his chin and looking down his nose at Greg. Greg isn't some lackey to be dismissed with an icy glance, but his gut tells him to tread carefully. He keeps his tone gentle. "You think I'm going to change my mind?"

"I'm not a good judge of these matters," Mycroft says simply, as if that's an easy acknowledgement. From a Holmes of all people.

"So, what, this is a cooling off period?" Greg asks, trying for humour.

Mycroft's mouth quirks. "Something like that. I believe you know me well enough to understand there would be some complications."

"Like your mad brother? Or the irregular work schedule? I already have experience dealing with both of those."

Mycroft tilts his head, watching him with interest. Greg really wants to kiss him again. "I don't see the appeal in something casual and fleeting. And you may find spending the night with a man is more appealing than... something serious, as you would say. There's no point pursuing something that won't satisfy both of us."

It's logical and sensible. Very mature. Greg still wants to lean over and snog him senseless. "I won't change my mind," Greg says, because he makes rash decisions but he's never truly regretted them.

"That would be gratifying if true," Mycroft says warmly. "Have a happy Christmas."

***

Scotland is icy and cold, but the snow lies in white blankets across the countryside and it's pretty enough that Greg can forgive the temperature. London never has winters like this: pristine white snow sparkling in the weak sunlight. London has dirty ice and slush, people trudging through and cursing it and the homeless curled into doorways and trying not to shiver. Winter in London is rigor mortis setting in early and losing feeling in his fingers waiting for a cab and wearing two pairs of socks in his work shoes.

Up here, the air is fresh and crisp, and every window looks out to a scene from a Christmas card, and it's a big house full of friends and chatter, good food and good wine. It's a fantastic break but all Greg wants to do is call Mycroft.

He thinks about it on Christmas Eve and decides that might look desperate. It's only been a few days. He thinks about it Christmas morning, but Christmas is always busy and nobody needs a call while they're trying to get dressed and pick up all the presents and deal with holiday traffic. So Greg forces himself to wait until mid-afternoon before he sneaks off to find a quiet place to call. Sex makes things complicated; the possibility of sex, all that mutual attraction and the tempting unknown, somehow that makes it worse. Greg doesn't want to make a bloody mess of this.

It's a little frightening to realise how desperately he wants this to work. He dials and hopes -- hopes this isn't too much, hopes Mycroft hasn't had further doubts, hopes Mycroft even wants to speak to him.

"Gregory, thank god," Mycroft says fervently when the call connects. "Talk to me. Tell me anything in great detail. Take as long as you possibly can."

"Merry Christmas to you too," Greg says, chuckling in amusement and relief. Mycroft once mentioned the Christmas dinners. Only in passing but with that pinched look of annoyance usually reserved for Sherlock's most dangerous stunts. "Christmas dinner's going well, then?"

"I've been here for at least a month. Send a rescue party."

"I'd help, but I'm in another country."

"Convenient," Mycroft says darkly.

"Come on. It can't be that bad."

"I have had to peel potatoes." Mycroft sounds thoroughly offended by the idea, as if it's an insult of inconceivable proportions. "Thanks to Sherlock, I couldn't even bring my laptop. There is literally nothing to do but sit around talking to people and watching a toddler touch every surface she can find."

"You need to learn to relax."

"This is not relaxation. This is torture."

Greg can imagine it clearly. Mycroft isn't the type to deal with inactivity well. Again, the Holmes brothers have more in common than either would admit. "How's Sherlock?"

"He's well, as is John and Rosie. They send their regards."

"Really?"

"Well, John said to say hi for him. Sherlock is being his insufferable self."

Suddenly, the snowy landscape outside looks serenely perfect. At least in comparison to Sherlock at his most obnoxious. "What's he done now?"

"It's less his actions, and more the insinuation that I should have invited you today. Every time Mummy brings up some nice single man," Mycroft says, with a bright overlay of sarcasm, "who just moved into the village, Sherlock attempts to drag you into the conversation. It hasn't worked yet, but there's bound to be an awkward conversation before I leave."

"Just tell her the truth," Greg says, because the head of MI6 and whatever else Mycroft runs shouldn't be scared of a conversation with his mum. "That I'd already made Christmas plans with friends."

"I have no intention of confessing your existence to my mother," Mycroft says crisply.

"What, I'm not good enough to meet your parents?" Greg teases him, grinning to himself. "Not proper enough for their little boy?"

"I am forty-seven years old. I am nobody's 'little boy'," Mycroft says, voice dripping with condescension. "Besides, you've met Sherlock. The rest of my family is no better."

"A horror of Holmes?"

"Precisely. Even Jeremy only attended every third year, and he was under far greater social expectations." As much as Mycroft may complain about Christmas, it does make him lower his guard. He's never mentioned specifics about the ex before. 

Greg finds himself curious about what a Holmes Christmas would be like -- would Mycroft wear a suit? Would Sherlock play the brat to Mycroft's rather teenage whining? Would Christmas dinner be awkward and full of resentments, or would it be the one time the brothers stopped bickering and remembered they were family?

Greg imagines them sitting around a fireplace, a big Christmas tree in the corner, and Mycroft excusing himself to take a call. ("Sorry, have to take this, world's ending.") It doesn't sound too bad to Greg.

"Maybe he just wasn't into family dos," Greg says.

"Oh, it was less that and more that Sherlock--" Mycroft cuts himself off suddenly, as if he hadn't meant to say that. Definitely more relaxed at Christmas. "Forgive me. I've had more wine than I should have."

Greg wants to question further. He wants to know the lay of the land: what the ex was like, what happened, why it ended and what Greg should watch out for. He wants to know everything he can but he also knows demanding those details is rude. If Mycroft wants to tell him, he's all ears, but he can't force him to share. This isn't an interrogation. "If it helps, I could call you back in an hour. Give you another reprieve."

"That would be wonderful," Mycroft says gently, "but it's hardly necessary. You should enjoy your Christmas."

"I am," Greg says and then decides bugger this, he might as well be honest. "I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh," Mycroft says, breathless like he'd been in the back of his car. Greg has a quick flash of memory, his mouth on Mycroft's neck, the warmth of skin under his lips, the faint vanilla smell of Mycroft's cologne. "You really should reconsider, Gregory."

"Why?"

"I am not the best choice you could make." As if finding that spark with someone, anyone, is as easy as ordering off a menu. As if Greg only has to flick his fingers for other options to flock around him.

Greg hasn't been this interested in someone in a long time. The last time...well, he married her. "I think you'd be good for me."

"Apparently you've had too much wine as well."

***

Greg doesn't have to call back, but he does anyway. "Hey," he says, and Mycroft's answering "Hello," is softly pleased.

Greg smiles and leans against the doorway. He's standing in the hallway, hiding from friends. "I thought we could play a game."

"A game on Christmas day? How novel," Mycroft says sarcastically.

Greg's actually pretty pleased with himself for thinking of this. "The pros and cons of our respective Christmases."

"It's your game. You should go first."

"Pro: we're surrounded by two foot of snow and it looks like we stepped into a TV Christmas special. Con: this means no one's willing to drive to find somewhere selling custard."

"Pudding without custard? Surely you at least have cream?"

"We do, so the situation isn't dire, but everyone's turning the kitchen inside out trying to find the custard Jules swears she bought."

"You could try cooking it?" The tone of voice makes Greg wonder if Mycroft's raising one imperious eyebrow at him.

"I think cooking is one of those activities best done sober. Now it's your turn."

"Pro: my mother is extraordinarily pleased that Rosie came for Christmas. Con: we have spent the last thirty-six minutes looking at Sherlock's baby photos."

"Not yours?" Greg asks, curious. 

"Mine mysteriously disappeared."

"When did that happen?"

"As soon as I was old enough to realise how potentially embarrassing they could be."

*** 

They continue the game through the afternoon. Every hour or so, Greg calls and they share a complaint. That watching Doctor Who feels like Christmas, but it makes Greg feel old when the Doctor looks like a uni student. That Mycroft always wins at Ludo but Sherlock gloats terribly when he wins Hungry Hippos.

That Christmas food is delicious but leaves Greg in a food coma for the rest of the day. That Mycroft likes the decorations his parents insist upon, but mistletoe always makes one terribly aware of being single.

The next time Greg calls, he says, "I'm sitting in front of a roaring fire right now."

"Is that a pro or a con?" Mycroft asks. After spending the day around family, his accent is a little plummier, closer to Sherlock's drawled upper class vowels rather than Mycroft's usual crisp, RP accent. Greg wonders if it's an effect of alcohol or family or both.

"The fire's a pro. Who doesn't love a fire on a cold night?" Greg smiles and rests his head back on the sofa. He's had a few drinks himself. "The con is that you're not here with me."

"Pro," Mycroft says slowly after a small, warm silence, "your calls have made me enjoy today. Con: Mummy pulled me aside to let me know how pleased she was that I'm dating again. Apparently she'd worried that one setback would lead to me dying alone and lonely."

Greg snorts in amusement. "Yeah, tell me you're not someone's little boy."

"Don't drink so much you can't make it back upstairs," Mycroft says as if Greg hasn't already worked out he can kip on the sofa.

***

After calling Sherlock three times and getting no response, Greg calls John. It's the day after Boxing Day and the weather is still icy, so Greg's spent the morning thinking of a birthday present for someone who runs half the known world. Mycroft would be the first to object to that description -- he has a minor role, he influences, it's all a lot of dull diplomatic discussions -- but Greg suspects the truth is a lot closer to Sherlock's grandiose claims.

John, because he's a reasonable human being (read: not a Holmes), picks up. "Hey, Greg, how was Christmas?"

"It was good. Spent yesterday recovering from the hangover, though," Greg says easily. "Yours?"

"Good, good. Rosie loved it. Sherlock's mum dotes on her." There's a warmth in John's voice when he talks about family, even Sherlock's. Greg gets it. Once your parents are gone, you miss that sense of family. John may have a sister but since Harry has no intention of getting back on the wagon and John can't stand being around her and watching the addiction play out, that's not the same.

For all their oddities, for all the childish bickering, the Holmes are family. They do Christmas together and keep an eye on one another, and if times are dire enough, they'll even work together. 

"Sherlock spent most of his time trying to eavesdrop," John says, and there's a snort in the background that suggests he's saying it for Sherlock's benefit. "Mycroft received a lot of calls."

Greg feels himself grin. "Kind of why I'm calling."

"Because you spent Christmas drunk-dialling my brother?" Sherlock calls out in the background.

"Might as well put this on speaker," John mutters.

"Can you give me Mycroft's address?" Greg asks and Sherlock scoffs.

"Why would you want that? Just wave at a CCTV camera and he'll come to you."

"I want to send him flowers."

"Why?"

"I need a delivery address. If I'm ordering online, I need to tell them where to take them."

"I think Sherlock meant why are you sending him flowers," John says helpfully. He sounds very calm and a little confused, the same way he sounds when they've suddenly discovered a gruesome body or some idiot pulls a gun on him. John has a very controlled reaction to the unexpectedly dangerous.

"It's his birthday tomorrow." Greg's thought this through. There isn't anything material that he could buy Mycroft that Mycroft couldn't buy for himself, probably of a higher quality. He's in Scotland, so he can't suggest doing anything together. But something fleetingly enjoyed, something that's personal without being revealing, that suggests romance without being obvious... Well, flowers were the only thing he could think of.

"This is Mycroft," Sherlock enunciates slowly, as if Greg might be confused.

"He'd probably appreciate a poisoned pen," John mutters. "Or the disembodied hearts of his enemies."

"Far too messy," Sherlock replies.

"If you two have had your fun," Greg says, rolling his eyes.

"Why are you encouraging this?" There's a clatter as Sherlock drops something, and then his voice is clearer, closer. "Donaldson made you uncomfortable. What's changed?"

"Donaldson?" There was a Donaldson case, but it was months ago and Greg can't remember being uncomfortable.

"Donaldson. Davidson. Five foot nine, dark hair, gay, Detective Constable."

"Dennison." Greg remembers him clearly. He also remembers keeping his office door open when they talked and trying to hold most conversations in public spaces. "What made you think I was uncomfortable around him?"

"A basic understanding of body language," Sherlock replies sarcastically. "I don't understand why you're suddenly accepting of same sex attraction directed at you."

"What? I'm not--" Greg shuts his mouth and forces himself to think before he speaks. Denying it won't convince Sherlock; explaining it might. "Did it ever occur to you that I was uncomfortable around Dennison because of the rank? A constable flirting with a DI like that? That never ends well."

Sherlock speaks slowly, imagining scenarios and thinking them through. "You thought it would have a negative impact on your career."

"Nobody wants their personal life investigated by their boss."

"You've been attracted to men in the past," Sherlock announces. For all that he likes Sherlock, sometimes Greg really wants to strangle him. "You wouldn't have been so cautious unless you perceived a risk of acting upon the invitation."

"I wouldn't have acted on it. He was thirty and flirting with his boss's boss. Who was wearing a wedding ring."

"Valid reasons but your own sexuality should have been the first one."

"Just-- be helpful, okay? Do you know Mycroft's address or not?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock says, and then, "Mycroft doesn't believe in emotional attachments."

Conversational whiplash: that's how it feels talking to Sherlock. Greg's starting to regret this conversation but he's too stubborn to give up now. "What?"

"'All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.' He's said those exact words to me and meant them."

"When?" Greg asks, and then realises that he knows. He's said something similar enough himself. "Let me guess: before the divorce but after the marriage broke down?"

"Yes, actually."

In the background, John says, "Mycroft got divorced? Since I've known him? I had no idea."

"Why would he want you to know?" Sherlock asks, as if it's a ridiculous question. Greg thinks of Mycroft's wistful glance, Mycroft's simple confession of no longer being married. He'd thought that he just didn't know Mycroft well -- a distant acquaintance, Sherlock's brother talking to Sherlock's police contact -- but in hindsight it must have been a conscious choice from Mycroft. He could have avoided the confession all together, could have kept Greg as a distant, polite acquaintance rather than share something personal and honest. It seemed like such a small thing, but in hindsight, Mycroft made the first move.

In a sneaky, understated way that could only be seen in hindsight, but still. Huh.

"How did you guess the timeframe?" Sherlock asks, always curious about human motivation.

"Because we've all been there and said that. Got our heart broken and sworn off love. Said it's not worth the effort of letting someone close just to twist the knife in your back. You might mean it then, but you get over it." At some point, it becomes a painful memory instead of a still bleeding wound. It's just an old scar, a little tender to the touch. "Now, will you help?"

"On two conditions," Sherlock says. "First, you owe me an interesting case when you get back to London."

"If there is an interesting case, I'll call you."

"Find me one."

"I will check the open cases, and suggest the inspector call you if it's interesting. I'm not promising more than that."

"Acceptable," Sherlock agrees. "Secondly, you promise the bouquet will be large and obnoxiously bright."

"I'm not spending money on flowers that he'll hate."

"I'm not texting you his address if you're going to send some tastefully dull, tiny posy. If you're going to do something so patently ridiculous, commit to it."

"I was thinking roses." Something simple and classic. Can't go wrong with the classics.

"Boring."

"Carnations?"

"Even worse."

Greg takes a deep breath and tries not to lose his patience. "What would you suggest?"

"Mycroft tried to grow Asiatic lilies. Of course they never bloomed -- he's not good with living things. But he liked them enough to try."

"Fine. A colourful bunch of Asiatic lilies," Greg says and his phone beeps. There's an incoming message from Sherlock, saying 'Attn: Mycroft Holmes' care of the Diogenes Club. "A club?"

"He'll spend the afternoon there and a flower delivery won't be commented upon. It might garner attention at one of his other offices."

Which means Sherlock's insistence on an obnoxious bunch of flowers wasn't an attempt to embarrass Mycroft. Mycroft who sometimes wears polka dot ties and pocket squares, or dark pinstripe suits with red silk ties. The first impression is black cars, dark suits and overcoats, but there's a weakness for colour if you look close enough. If you know him well enough.

"Thanks, Sherlock."

***

"Happy birthday," Greg says when Mycroft picks up. It's early afternoon, hopefully late enough that he's not interrupting Mycroft in the middle of anything too important but early enough that it doesn't seem like a forgotten chore.

"You sent me flowers," Mycroft replies. There's no real inflection there, just a calm statement of facts but Mycroft rarely states the obvious. 

Greg had tried not to make them too obvious (the card should have been a simple "You know why. -- G") but it wouldn't have been mysterious for a Holmes. "So you got them?"

"They are rather ostentatious," Mycroft says, adding primly, "A call would have sufficed."

Greg wonders if Sherlock's advice was sound. Online, the flowers had looked almost too bright: all yellows and oranges and bright pinks, a few deep reds making the rest look brighter. "Do you like them?"

There's a telling pause, Mycroft deciding how much to say before finally speaking. "Yes."

"Then enjoy your birthday," Greg says, feeling unreasonably proud of himself.

***

There's something ridiculous about having sex dreams in your fifties. It feels like something Greg should have grown out of by twenty. Waking up achingly hard, catching his breath, with the dream memory of Mycroft's long, cool fingers and warm, sinful mouth... Bloody hell.

It's hot and embarrassing and ridiculous. He's not going to lie in bed and furtively rub one out, but after five minutes of lying there remembering -- Mycroft's hands splayed across his ribcage, Mycroft's soft lips dragging along his cock, that warm, talented tongue, fuck -- he gets up and has a shower.

He stands under the hot spray of water and jerks off, thinking of kissing Mycroft in the back of that car, of climbing over the man and pulling those layers free. Getting hands on skin and sucking a mark low on his neck, imagining Mycroft making that little moan for him again.

It works better than porn. Even really good porn where nobody looks bored.

***

'Doing anything on Saturday?' Greg texts Mycroft. The call back comes seconds later.

"You did not just ask me out via text message," Mycroft says, as offended and judgmental as only he can be. It makes Greg grin.

"No," he says.

"No?"

"I was confirming your plans via text message. Totally different."

"Hmmm." Mycroft can even make a hum sound sarcastically doubtful. "I could clear Saturday."

Greg nearly says, 'how about dinner?' but Mycroft would probably appreciate a more formal invitation. "Let me take you out to dinner. We can come back to mine afterwards for coffee."

"What time?" Mycroft asks, as if the yes is a foregone conclusion.

"Eight?"

"Let me know the restaurant and I'll meet you there."

***

It's a good night, until they get to the bedroom. The restaurant isn't too fancy or too crowded, just a simple little Spanish place with candles in empty sangria bottles and cotton tablecloths. They talk over their meals, flirt a little over the dessert wine, and then Greg suggests walking back to his place.

There's a charge between them. Walking down neon-lit streets, around other people, knowing that he's going to kiss Mycroft as soon as his flat door closes. Knowing that Mycroft is aware of it too.

They talk about something inconsequential -- the chance of rain tomorrow, the building works opposite Charing Cross station -- and Mycroft keeps the conversation running smoothly. Greg can't help stealing glances at Mycroft's hands, the graceful stretch of Mycroft's neck, the curve of Mycroft's lips. Places he wants to touch, places he wants to kiss. He tries to keep it subtle but there's the slightest flush to Mycroft's cheeks that says he notices. It could be due to the crisp January cold and the quick pace of their hurried steps, but the tongue running across Mycroft's upper lip suggests Mycroft's thinking something rather similar.

Somehow Greg unlocks the building door and leads them up to his flat without molesting Mycroft on the stairs, without pushing him against the boring magnolia-painted walls and burrowing his hands through those layers until he reaches skin. He gets his door open and ushers Mycroft inside, offering to take Mycroft's coat. He even gets both their coats hung up before Mycroft steps towards him and says, "Gregory," quiet and breathy, and Greg's stepping in to kiss him without another thought.

He slides his hands over Mycroft's shoulders, holding onto the bony joints as Mycroft kisses back, as Mycroft shuffles them both forward, his own hands low on Greg's sides. Greg's too distracted by Mycroft's mouth: the soft give of lips on lips, the way Mycroft shudders when Greg's tongue traces the roof of his mouth, the sharp little gasp when Greg catches Mycroft's bottom lip between his teeth. Mycroft's fingers dig into his hips as he soothes the sting with tiny kisses. Greg doesn't notice them shuffling their way into the bedroom until they're stumbling through the doorway, Mycroft tripping on the uneven carpet, and Greg grabbing him tight to steady him.

That's when Greg notices his bed only a few steps away. Mycroft's never been to his flat, yet he didn't steer them into a single wall or trip over any furniture. "Aren't you clever," Greg says, and it comes out gruff and a little possessive.

Mycroft looks down that striking nose of his, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't straighten to his full height. "Frequently," he says primly.

Greg has to kiss that smug smile off his face. He really doesn't have a choice. Has to hold him closer and kiss him until Mycroft makes that small, quiet moan that drives Greg crazy. Has to push a thigh between Mycroft's legs, cant his hips forward, give Mycroft something to press and squirm against as he loses himself in sensation.

Mycroft Holmes: sensualist. Who knew?

The kissing is easy. It's all warm breaths and wet mouths and chasing those little sighs and hissed gasps. Greg closes his eyes and nuzzles along Mycroft's smooth jaw, exploring with lips and tongue. Breathing deeply and catching hints of vanilla and something a little sweeter, lighter than jasmine, not quite lavender, but something that makes him think of cake and flowers.

Clothes are easy. Jackets and shirts, buttons that come apart under his fingers, that give way to warm, living skin under his hands. Skin he can smooth his palms up, or drag the blunt edge of his fingernails down. He can curve his hands around Mycroft's chest, feel his ribs move with each quick breath, or slide his hands further, dig his fingers into the muscles on Mycroft's back, shifting every time he moves his hips, every time he grinds shamelessly against Greg's thigh. 

"Bed," Mycroft says, but it barely comes out above a whisper. His jacket, waistcoat and shirt are hanging open, his skin milky pale against Greg's hands.

"Yeah," Greg says but bed is where it gets tricky. Groping and snogging a bloke against a wall, he's done that before. But under the covers and both naked is new territory. 

It isn't so different, is it? Horizontal or vertical, it's the same damn thing. Greg should be able to kiss him, to reach down for his cock, or at least rub off against each other without over-thinking and worrying.

It shouldn't be difficult but he can feel himself freezing a bit, not sure where to put his hands, suddenly very aware of the heat of Mycroft's skin close to his. Suddenly very aware that he's holding himself back, lying naked beside Mycroft but not skin to skin. Not touching.

When he tries to shake himself out of this embarrassing stupor, when he forces himself to lean in and kiss Mycroft, it's tense and weird. Awkward when it really shouldn't be.

When he glances over, Mycroft's watching him with sharp grey-blue eyes. For a moment, Greg thinks of crystal figurines, wonders if everyone is as transparent as glass to a Holmes.

"I would not have suggested bed if I'd realised," Mycroft says with more kindness than Greg was expecting.

"It's not... I just..." Greg shrugs one shoulder and rolls on to his back, as if not seeing Mycroft will make this easier. "I haven't done this in a long time, and back then I was twenty-three and invincible."

"And extremely drunk," Mycroft adds. Greg doesn't want to know how he knows that. "And even then, I doubt those trysts ended in someone's bedroom."

"True." Back alleys at a club, a car park behind a pub, but not someone's house. Not lying beside someone in his own freshly laundered sheets.

"Do you want me to leave?" Mycroft asks calmly.

"No, not really." Greg looks over to Mycroft and lets the confusion show on his face. He hopes the regret shows too. "I don't want to stop. I just... Don't know what to do."

"Ah," Mycroft says. Followed by, "Easily solved, if you'll allow me."

Allow him what, Mycroft doesn't say. He simply presses a hand against Greg's shoulder to steady himself, and then leans over Greg.

"Trust me," he says, words breathed right against Greg's lips. "I am very good at this."

As if Mycroft Holmes is less than extraordinary at everything he does. As if Greg would object to Mycroft dropping a kiss to his collarbone and then continuing downwards.

Mycroft's movements are certain and measured. He follows a slow, steady trail down Greg's chest, sucking kisses to the skin as he goes. His fingers whisper light touches along Greg's sides, dipping down over Greg's hips. There's nothing hurried or rushed about it, it feels inevitable.

So it's not a surprise when Mycroft keeps sliding down the bed, when a kiss pressed to his hipbone is followed by an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his cock. Not a surprise except for the way it's always a surprise to have someone's warm, wet mouth wrapped around his cock, lips and tongue and sweet suction making his toes curl.

"Condom," Greg rasps, managing to pull two brain cells together. "Top drawer."

Mycroft pulls off and looks at him. Stares with one judging eyebrow raised. "Were you under the illusion I wouldn't access your medical records?"

The laughter bubbles out of Greg's chest. It's invasive and controlling, but Mycroft would only see it as efficient and prudent. "Of course you did," Greg says, far too amused by this ridiculous man. "Go ahead."

"Thank you," Mycroft says politely, and then sucks on Greg's cock like, fuck, like gag reflexes are for other people. Greg can feel the head of his cock against the back of Mycroft's throat. Can feel Mycroft moving against the sensitive underside. Can feel the catch, the muscles of Mycroft's throat move around him as Mycroft swallows.

Greg's trembling with the effort of staying still, not letting his hips jerk forward rudely. His hands are twisted in the sheets, pulling them loose and wrinkled as Mycroft bobs his head slowly, lips wrapped tight around Greg's cock.

It's a hell of a sight. Mycroft's lips rosy and pink, stretched around him. Mycroft's head tilted down, but those sharp eyes looking up at him, glittering with enough determination and intelligence to reshape the world, all currently focused on taking Greg to pieces.

Greg can feel himself muttering. A constant mumble of swear words, growled and broken. The occasional gasp of Mycroft's name. Getting sharper as Mycroft doesn't let up, not for a second. Keeps it so good and so intense that Greg's gasping for breath, grabbing onto sheets so tight his knuckles hurt. He has to squeeze his eyes shut, has to reach down blindly to get a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. Greg tries to warn him that he's close, can't be sure the words even make it out when Mycroft's cool fingers are playing with his balls, this whispering tease that pushes him over the edge, that makes that hot, wet mouth too much.

He grunts as he comes, feels it down to his fingers and toes, that white burst of bliss radiating from his gut and his cock leaving him boneless after the explosion.

"Fuck," he says, sprawling back on the bed. "Fuck."

"I'll take that as a compliment." The words are precise but there's a rough catch to Mycroft's voice that sends a bolt of want straight through Greg. Smoothly spoken Mycroft Holmes, voice rough from sucking cock... It's a hell of a thought.

"Absolutely." Greg lies there and feels the mattress move as Mycroft gets up and heads to the bathroom. He hears water running and then gargling.

When Mycroft climbs back into the bed, his breath smells minty fresh. "I will confess," he says, settling beside Greg, "I did fear I would be rusty."

Mycroft rolls to face the wall and Greg rolls behind him, taking the opportunity to be the big spoon. He rests an arm along Mycroft's side and Mycroft arches back towards him. "Trust me," Greg says, pressing a kiss to the thin skin behind Mycroft's ear, "no skills lost there."

Greg should say something. Should offer some kind of reciprocity, but then it sounds like an exchange of favours. If this was a one night stand, he'd bring it up and laugh it off, and he wouldn't worry if it sounded sleazy. But this feels bigger than that, too important to risk a joke in bad taste. He doesn't want to offend Mycroft when they've only just begun, but he doesn't want to leave Mycroft frustrated either…

"It's fine," Mycroft says softly, dragging fingers along Greg's wrist. "You're worrying needlessly."

"I am, am I?" Greg grumbles against Mycroft's shoulder. He's not sure if he appreciates mind-reading in bed.

"Yes," Mycroft says firmly.

Greg takes him at his word. He lets himself stop thinking and enjoys the moment. Relaxed and satisfied, curled against another warm body. He's missed this, more than he wants to admit. It's not the sex, it's the opportunity to let his guard down, to be lulled by the steady movement of someone else breathing. It's something that was gone long before the divorce came through.

It's nice to lie there, listening to the distant noise of traffic, the occasional door slamming from a neighbour, and not worry about anything. 

***

Greg wakes up curled against Mycroft's hip. Mycroft's sitting up on a stack of pillows, tapping his smartphone with both thumbs as he types. The room's dark except for the white-blue glow from the screen.

Greg yawns, rubbing his cheek against the pillow and shifting back to look up at Mycroft. "What time is it?"

"Half past one," Mycroft replies quietly. His eyes are eerily bright in the stark light, the angles of his face exaggerated by harsh shadows. Mycroft presses something on his phone and the screen goes dark.

Greg didn't mean to fall asleep but it feels stupid to say that. "Any urgent world-saving required?"

"That question relies upon your definition of urgent," Mycroft points out. He moves the pillows around and shifts down on the bed. He pulls the covers up to his chin. "I was merely tidying up some emails."

"Uh-huh," Greg says doubtfully. 

"I am a fact-checker. Nothing glamorous," Mycroft says firmly. "There is no world-saving involved."

"Uh-huh," Greg says, drawing the sound out longer, making it clear how little he believes that story. Sherlock may exaggerate but John doesn't, and all three of them agree that there's more to Mycroft's job than departmental meetings and office-wide emails. Regardless of what Mycroft might or might not admit. "It's okay. I'm probably better off not knowing."

"They do say ignorance is bliss."

"They never met you or Sherlock, did they?"

"Probably not," Mycroft replies, amused. He shifts over to his side, facing away from Greg. It could be a sign of wanting some space, but Greg decides to risk it. He shuffles up closer, rests a hand along Mycroft's side, and Mycroft sighs into it, relaxing back.

"You're a secret cuddler," Greg accuses. He lets his fingers meander back and forth, stroking over bare skin.

"No one would believe you."

Mycroft's probably right. Not that Greg has any intention of testing the theory, but he doubts anyone would look at Mycroft, pressed and precise in his suits, and imagine that out of them he's like this: warm and touchable. There's a simple enjoyment there, an appreciation of pleasure for its own sake. Greg had half expected Mycroft to be analytical, coldly logical about the best use of force and angle. But there's something still and peaceful, as if Mycroft's quite content to lie here, back pressed to Greg's chest, warm under the covers as Greg's fingers trace aimless patterns on his sides.

"Good thing I don't care what they'd believe," Greg mumbles into the skin of Mycroft's neck. He presses a kiss to the skin. Just a light press of lips.

Mycroft still smells good. Whatever the cologne is, it's fainter now but there's still a hint of sugary sweetness and summer blooms. Greg breathes in the smell of his skin, nosing under Mycroft's jaw, not paying attention to his wandering hand until he brushes across the hard rise of hipbone.

He could stop. He might. But... Mycroft's pressed against him, breathing slow and deep, shoulder down to allow easy access to his neck. He's not asking, not pushing, but he's clearly open to it.

Greg's never been one to refuse an invitation.

Greg lets his hand wander down a little further. Long stretch of thigh, the barely there catch of hair beneath his fingertips. He thinks that he could just move his hand up and in, and it would almost be like wanking. The same movement he's been practising since he was fourteen.

He presses a kiss to the curve of Mycroft's ear, catches the lobe between his teeth. That used to drive Jenny crazy but Mycroft doesn't seem fussed. He kisses along Mycroft's hairline, and he feels Mycroft tense against him when he gets to the back of his neck. He sucks another kiss there, and Mycroft shifts against him, thigh muscles going tight under Greg's hand. When he drags his teeth along the vertebrae, Mycroft hisses and grabs hold of his wrist. It's only a moment of lost control, barely a second before Mycroft's pulling his hand back, refusing to demand something he wants.

"I can't promise I won't freeze up again," Greg confesses. It sounds like an apology.

"You won't." Mycroft sounds far too certain. Greg hopes he's right. "But you are under no obligation to continue. Stop as you wish."

"Okay," Greg says and drags his teeth down that ridge of spine again. He doesn't know what point he's trying to make, but it feels good to have Mycroft pressing back against him. This time, there's a hand on Greg's hip to hold him there.

Greg closes his eyes, mouths his way across one shoulder. He lets his hand brush over Mycroft's skin and tries not to think about it. When Mycroft's breath catches, when Mycroft squirms back against him, arse pressed to Greg's hips, Greg scrapes over the skin with his teeth.

Mycroft's fingers dig into his hip and, oh, it's a powerful rush to think of Mycroft getting desperate. To think of Mycroft losing control over something as simple as a few kisses to his neck and a hand sliding over that smooth stomach. All Greg has to do is scrape his teeth down the nape of Mycroft's neck to make him hiss sharply. Imagine what other noises he could tease out of Mycroft.

Greg slowly slides his hand down, past short trimmed hair to the heat of Mycroft's cock. It's hot in his hand, already hard. The skin is soft and smooth under his fingers, and all Greg can think about is the vulnerability, holding something so sensitive, so easily hurt in his hand. He's never thought of that before, the simple trust of letting someone else touch. For a moment, the responsibility sits heavily on his shoulders, and then he reminds himself that he's done this to himself often enough to know what feels good.

He begins the way he usually does: a few loose strokes to start, then slowing his fingers around the tip to play with the foreskin. Mycroft responds by planting a foot flat on the bed, bending his knee and pushing it back to give Greg space. His breathing quickens as Greg tightens his grip a little, slides the foreskin over the sensitive head.

Greg keeps it light -- exploring, teasing -- until Mycroft's hips start to twitch, until Mycroft's fingers are desperately tight on Greg's hip. Then he picks up the pace, moves his hand faster and holds a little tighter. It's worth it for the quiet moan Mycroft gives, a sound that makes Greg think of champagne and chocolate, and the first time he really wanted Mycroft. The first time it was more than a casual thought or a passing fancy; the first time he felt hungry, and wanted to get his hands on Mycroft's skin.

Mycroft twists backwards, shoulders nearly flat on the bed, and tangles a hand into Greg's hair. He pulls him into a messy kiss, mouth open and panting, and doesn't let go as Greg keeps jerking him off. He holds Greg there, foreheads pressed together, breathing close and occasionally managing a kiss. The kind of kiss that gets broken by gasps when Greg turns his fingers or slides his thumb over the head. The kind of kiss that's all about needing to be close to someone as you come apart.

It gives Greg a goal. A reason to move his arm faster, to see how loud he can make those quiet moans. He keeps going until Mycroft's eyes are screwed shut, until his voice catches halfway through "Gregory". Until Mycroft is wound up tight, clutching onto Greg and panting against his shoulder, hips snapping forward as he comes.

Mycroft goes steel tense for a second, and then collapses against the mattress. He's flushed, breathing starting to slow and relax. Greg presses a kiss to Mycroft's temple and gets comfortable beside him.

***

Greg wakes up to sunlight sneaking through his blind and the sound of the shower running. He rolls over to his stomach, bunching the pillow under his head. He'll suggest breakfast when Mycroft comes out -- scrambled eggs and baked beans, there might even be some bacon in the freezer -- but when Mycroft steps out, he's already dressed in all but his shoes.

"Stay in bed," Mycroft says, pausing to pick up his shoes. "Unfortunately, I need to leave."

Greg could tease him about emergency meetings on a Sunday, but instead he says, "Stay safe."

"Always," Mycroft replies as if it's perfectly obvious.

***

There's a strange impasse where Greg doesn't call and Mycroft doesn't call, and suddenly it's a week later. On top of the usual assaults, Greg's been busy prepping for a court appearance and dealing with a difficult shooting. (Ten witnesses and nobody heard the gun. The sort of case that gives Greg a headache, but makes Sherlock grin with excitement.) 

Greg meant to call Mycroft but every time he thought of it, it was too late or too early, and suddenly it's almost next weekend. He should have called days ago. Or texted, or something. He's not so out of practice that he doesn't know the message sent by ignoring someone after you sleep together.

Greg stares at his phone with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, and debates calling at all. It's rude to call a week later, but... Better late than never, right?

Greg sighs, scrolling through to Mycroft's number. Greg's a grown man. He pays his taxes and goes to the dentist, and he can call up and apologise like an adult.

"Hi," he says when the call connects.

"Gregory," Mycroft says, calm and cool as ever. "Could we keep this brief?"

Grimacing, Greg guesses this call came too late. "Is this a bad time?"

"It's 3am."

Greg glances at the clock, but that shows a perfectly reasonable 10am. "You're out of the country?" Greg asks, curious. He knows he'll be searching international time zones later to see where Mycroft might be.

"I am indisposed," Mycroft says firmly, as if that's the end of it.

Yeah, minor government official, sure. "I meant to call earlier. I've been busy but I meant to."

"I'm well aware of your case load. Is this honestly something that can't wait for another five hours?"

It's the sound of a stifled yawn that makes Greg grin. "It can wait. Call me when you have time."

***

"It's ridiculous," Greg says, ignoring Anderson's waving finger and imminent interruption. "A supermarket's got too many entrances to be secure. You'd have to board them all up, and you couldn't do that quietly."

"But you've got food," Anderson says, stabbing the table with a finger. It's a Friday night and no one's working tomorrow. They've had a few rounds and then someone mentioned The Walking Dead. "Tinned food that would last for years, as well as clothing and batteries and some basic medical supplies."

Greg shakes his head. "Too many entrances to keep secure."

"And where would you sleep?" Stevens says, shrugging his large shoulders. For an uncharitable moment, Greg thinks a guy carrying as much padding as Stevens shouldn't find it too uncomfortable to sleep. "What about washing? Showers?"

There's a moment of silence, and then Nicholls says, "A gym. Showers and space to stay fit."

"They usually only have one entrance," Greg allows.

"But what are you going to eat?" Anderson asks plaintively.

"There's usually a cafe," Stevens says as Greg looks across the pub and sees Mycroft standing by the doorway.

Mycroft has his umbrella in one hand, leaning at a jaunty angle, and still has his coat on. Just got here, then. He's wearing a dark grey suit and pale blue tie, and he looks good enough that Greg has to work to keep his expression neutral.

"Excuse me, boys," Greg says, standing up and managing to keep the smile off his face until he's four steps past their table. Mycroft's return smile is small but pleased. 

"So you're back." Greg gets a disapproving eyebrow raised back at him. He ignores it. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," Mycroft says, as if it's nothing more than simple fact. As if Greg shouldn't be happily surprised by the admission.

"How did you find me?" He's never been to this pub with Mycroft and it's too far from Whitehall to be visited on a whim. 

"Honestly?" Mycroft asks and doesn't say anything more until Greg nods and gives a hurry-up wave of his hand. "The GPS on your phone."

"Isn't that an abuse of power?"

"It's an efficient use of my time and available resources," Mycroft says, as formal as any career civil servant. Greg feels like he should be making notes for the next time he has to justify the cost of a case. "Now you should make your goodbyes and collect your jacket."

"Or I could stay and have a night out with friends," Greg counters on principle. Just because Mycroft knows everything, doesn't mean he can tell Greg what to do. "I was having a good time."

Mycroft leans forward, not enough to be unseemly, but close enough that he can drop his voice low. "And if I promise you a better time?" Just for a moment, there's a crack in that civilised facade. The desire is plain on Mycroft's face.

Then Mycroft clears his throat and pulls back, stands up tall. He spins the umbrella handle in his hand. It's a distraction technique and gives Mycroft something to look at while he avoids eye contact. "Or I could join you if you'd prefer."

The tone is civil and the body language is casually disengaged, but it catches Greg's attention. Mycroft isn't the type of man to avoid eye contact. He's polite but direct, and he expects his suggestions to be followed.

Greg remembers Mycroft admitting he wasn't good at this. Maybe this is what he meant. That he finds it hard to follow someone else's preferences, to fit that forceful Holmes personality into someone else's average little life.

There's no appeal in the idea of Mycroft sitting at their table, looking interested in small talk but mostly staying quiet. It would be Mycroft doing his best to fit in, to be overlooked, to pretend to be someone he isn't. No, Greg doesn't like that at all.

"It's been two weeks. I'd rather not share your company with that lot," Greg says and Mycroft looks up at him, pleased. "Give me five minutes and I'll meet you outside."

***

Greg took the tube to the pub, so he's happy to sit in the back of Mycroft's warm, comfortable car and get driven to his door. Mycroft checks his phone and Greg watches Mycroft's profile. Sharp nose and weak chin, the slight quirk of lips to show he's satisfied with something, a distinct profile that Greg's surprisingly fond of. 

At some point, Greg's going to have to talk about that, put those feelings into words. If Mycroft's emotional intelligence is anything like Sherlock's, it might have to be very small words patiently explained. Greg grimaces at the thought of that conversation, and Mycroft tilts his head towards him, eyebrow raised in question.

"It's stupid," Greg says, shrugging and deflecting. "Best place to hide from the zombie apocalypse."

"The Tesco distribution centre in Waltham Cross," Mycroft says as if it's obvious, "although Hatfield or Reading would be acceptable, depending on where you were."

For a second, Greg wonders if there's a secret government file with 'open in case of zombies' stamped on it. The idea makes him grin. "Why?"

"Windows and doorways are already reinforced to ward off thieves. Long lasting food supply, including bottled water. Space to drive a vehicle into the warehouse to keep it safe and the office area would be small enough to heat effectively."

"I've missed you, you know," Greg says because he has. He's missed this, the way Mycroft can talk about anything with a clear opinion, that way he can pinpoint a solution even if it's a ridiculous theoretical problem.

Mycroft eyes him, not exactly suspicious but... waiting. "Not greatly, I hope."

"Enough to be happy to see you," Greg says. Mycroft tilts his chin down and turns back to his phone, but Greg still spots the small smile on his face.

Greg waits until the phone has been banished back to Mycroft's jacket pocket. "Are you coming back to mine?"

Mycroft looks at him, eyes sharp and evaluating. "Yes."

Greg smiles winningly. "Want to stay the night?"

Mycroft's guard drops. His gaze is heated, his expression hungry. Greg's tempted to lean across the car seat and kiss him right now. Tempted but the bed would be a lot more comfortable, and he wants to get his hands on naked skin. "If it's not inconvenient," Mycroft replies.

***

Greg doesn't know if he'd call it dating. He still meets Mycroft at pubs, enjoys a few drinks and a chat. Dating should have changed something, but the only thing different is the way the night ends. No more walking to the nearest station. Now it's always Mycroft's luxurious cars and Mycroft spending the night.

It's possible Sherlock was right. Maybe he's been dating Mycroft far longer than he realised.

Greg thinks it's going well. He likes spending time with Mycroft, likes talking to him about the small, ordinary annoyances or weird new facts stumbled across on Wikipedia. (Mycroft can always expand in more detail than the article. Greg's given up on ever finding something Mycroft doesn't already know.)

He likes that low burn of anticipation when they get into Mycroft's car. Knowing that he could reach over, knowing that they both want to, and waiting until they get to Greg's flat. He's getting used to reaching up to kiss Mycroft, leading him down with a hand curved around the nape of his neck. He likes how Mycroft will follow his lead as long as they're headed towards the bedroom.

He likes that he can still smell Mycroft's cologne on his sheets the next day.

***

"Any reason we always go back to mine?" Greg asks, sitting in the back of Mycroft's car a few weeks later.

"Because sex in the back of a moving vehicle is awkward and unsatisfying," Mycroft replies, calm civil servant mask firmly in place. He has a fantastic poker face. It cracks Greg up every time.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Greg replies, grinning.

"I have rooms in Pall Mall. They're not generous." Mycroft pulls a face, not quite apologetic but far from pleased by the admission. "I took them for the location."

"How small are we talking?"

"A glorified bedsit, honestly. The kitchen and bathroom are separate, but two people would make it crowded."

Greg nearly asks how long he's been there, but he can already guess the answer. When they separated, the first flat Greg got was small and dingy and utterly depressing. He needed a place quickly and it had been over a year before he'd cared enough to look for something nice. Well, nice in his price range.

"It meets my needs but its only somewhere to stay in the city," Mycroft says. "You're not working next Saturday and I should be free. I'll show you my house."

His house out of the city, huh? "Is it some great museum of a country home? An inherited family seat?"

"Of course not. Musgrave Hall is far too large for a man living alone."

***

There are suits of armour. There are suits of armour standing around, leaning on heavy looking swords, like knights casually guarding their king. There's even one in Mycroft's exercise room, silently keeping watch over the treadmill. 

There's a matching pair of bronze sculptures -- of full-sized horses -- flanking Mycroft's dining table. Greg's never claimed to understand the wealthy or well bred, but knights and horses are the weirdest decor he's ever seen. He's seen hoarders and creepy collections of old, mostly bald dolls, and the squalid conditions of squatters and junkies, and this is still weirder.

Probably because without the medieval weapons and animals, Mycroft's house is surprisingly welcoming. It's all warm dark woods and soft carpets, heavy curtains and gentle lamplight. There's even a fire crackling opposite two armchairs, a perfect spot to sip something strong and relax into the upholstery.

But armour? Life-sized horse statues?

"They would have languished in storage otherwise," Mycroft says as if he can hear Greg's silent astonishment. "That seemed a waste."

"My entire flat came from Ikea," Greg confesses. "I've got no right to judge."

In some ways, it's what Greg was expecting. Traditional and old money, as conservative as Mycroft's three-piece suits, as casually expensive as the antique pocket watch he uses to check the time. But it also seems very... staid for a man who wears polka dots and enjoyed pressing a call button for champagne. 

Greg feels like he's missing the joke, and then they walk along the upper gallery. At first, it seems like Mycroft's hung portraits of every Holmes ancestor that bore a resemblance to him. But, no, Greg knows Sherlock and he's seen pictures of their parents. There are some similar features but there are too many differences to believe there's a line of Holmes through the centuries that look exactly like Mycroft.

And they do. All of them have Mycroft's eyes, sharp and shrewd. They have Mycroft's mouth, flatly serious or quirked in private amusement, but definitely the same mouth. They look old enough, the frames are in various conditions and some of the paint is a little cracked, but Greg trusts his instincts.

"These are fakes," Greg says, stopping in front of a painting with a Henry VIII style fur collar. It seems to dwarf Mycroft, but his chin is still raised high and he looks as if he's about to raise an eyebrow and order someone's head chopped off.

When Greg turns, the real Mycroft is almost wearing the same expression. "I can assure you, these are all actual paintings."

"But they're not what people assume they are," Greg says, and Mycroft briefly raises both brows at him. "It's not proof of some great family line. It's you."

Mycroft watches him closely, giving nothing away until he allows a small nod. "Most people don't notice it."

"Maybe they're too distracted by all the armour." Greg grins when Mycroft stares heavenward as if asking for patience. One of these days, he'll get a full eye roll from the man. "What made you get them?"

"It's a joke of sorts," Mycroft says as if that explains it. Mycroft dresses well so he's clearly not shy of a mirror, but there's being a little vain and then there's sitting for nine portraits in fancy costumes. Greg looks pointedly at the portraits and waits for Mycroft to fill the silence. 

"A friend was studying painting techniques, specifically restoration and ageing oil paints to match. The first portrait was an excuse to try those new skills."

"That explains the first one," Greg allows, "but what about the rest?"

Mycroft glances across at a painting. In it, he's wearing a dark, formal suit and top hat that looks like it belongs in a Dickens movie. He blinks and then says, "The painter happened to be Jeremy's flatmate and... I was rather smitten. It was an excuse to see him."

"And ask him out, I hope. Or did he ask you?"

"Oh, no. We were at the same New Year's Eve party. Champagne, kissing at midnight, and his boyfriend had just broken things off with him. It was a lucky confluence of circumstances."

Greg's not used to seeing Mycroft look so earnest. He digs his hands into his pockets to resist the temptation to reach out and kiss that fond smile. "So this gallery is proof of seduction through posing for paintings?"

"Proof that persistence succeeds, even when logic says it shouldn't."

***

On a whim, Greg picks up an extra latte on his way to St Bart's. He's returning a copy of an autopsy report, and everyone likes free coffee. Even Molly Hooper, who blinks and smiles nervously, and says, "Oh, is that for me?" before she reaches out for it.

"Obviously," comes Sherlock's deep voice from the far lab table. He's perched In front of a microscope, staring at something and taking notes. "Lestrade knows I prefer espresso."

Greg rolls his eyes. The day he fetches Sherlock coffee is probably the day this job breaks him. "It's for Molly. A thank you for putting a rush on those results."

"Oh, anytime, you know that," Molly says cheerily. He holds the coffee out for an extra moment before she finally takes it. "It's what we're here for. Well, not all we're here for but it's one of the main things."

"Don't simper at him," Sherlock says sourly, and Molly's shoulders hunch defensively. For such a clever, capable woman, it's a pity that Sherlock turns her into a deer caught in headlights, too stunned to put one foot in front of the other and walk away. "He's just spent a weekend in the country, and barely left the bedroom."

"Oh," Molly says brightly, "I didn't know you were seeing someone."

"Yeah, it's still new. But Sherlock's right that we spent the weekend out of the city."

"How did you meet?"

"Through work," Greg says and he doesn't need Sherlock's sharp-eyed stare to recognise the ambiguity in his answers. Strictly true, but also misleading. The thing is that Molly's someone he knows through work and while he likes Mycroft -- that's an understatement when he thinks about how much he wants this to work between them -- he's not prepared to be the GLBTI-whatever poster boy for the station.

"That is the downside of working here. You don't meet a lot of people. Well, not live ones." The joke falls a little flat. Molly's jokes always do.

"We were both waiting for Sherlock and started talking," Greg says, and feels ridiculous. Molly Hooper has questionable taste in men, but she's sweet and smart, considerate and trustworthy. She's kept bigger secrets for Sherlock than who's dating who. "I'm keeping it quiet at work. Mostly because he's Sherlock's brother."

"Mycroft?" Molly asks, face lighting up in a smile. "Oh, that's lovely."

"Lovely," Sherlock scoffs. "Have you met Mycroft?"

"Yes," Molly says sharply, and Greg blinks at the sudden show of spine, "and he was very concerned about you."

To fake Sherlock's death, Greg thinks. They must have worked together. Sherlock turns back to his microscope.

"I thought he was nice," Molly says, turning back to Greg. "He cares a lot about Sherlock and he's very clever, and he was well-mannered given the circumstances. I liked him."

"And he's funny," Greg says, "when you get to know him."

"No, he isn't," Sherlock mutters, but he keeps it (mostly) under his breath.

***

Mycroft is 'indisposed' for most of the next week but Greg's happy to get an invite out to dinner when he gets back in the country. The restaurant is all dark wood and deep burgundy walls, filled with small tables of hushed conversations and candlelight. It's more obvious than any of their previous meals were.

If anyone saw them out together, it would like exactly what it is: a date. The realisation makes Greg nervous.

"Would you prefer to go somewhere else?" Mycroft asks after the waiter leaves them with menus.

"No." Greg shakes his head. He glances around at the other tables and figures they won't be overheard. "Nobody at work knows I'm seeing you."

"I doubt a member of the Metropolitan Police would choose to eat here," Mycroft replies.

Greg's looking at the menu. Most of the Met couldn't afford it. "I'm not worried about being seen." Greg sighs. "Maybe we should have this conversation in private?"

Mycroft looks around the room, a careful and precise study everyone around them. "No one else is listening to us. Go ahead."

"I'm not out at work," Greg says carefully.

Mycroft allows a graceful nod.

"Is that going to be a problem? Because I don't plan on making that announcement any time soon." That sounds harsh but it's true. Greg already gets enough attention from the Press and enough infamy from the number of cases he's solved with Sherlock's help. He doesn't need to give his superiors any excuses to look any closer at how he does his job.

It's not self-preservation. It's not life or death, but it's an unnecessary hurdle that he doesn't want to jump if he doesn't have to.

"Is it a problem?" Mycroft echoes carefully, voice polite and calmly empty. "For me?"

"Look, I know it's not ideal, and it's not..." Greg rubs a hand across his forehead, not even sure how that sentence ends. "We don't have to talk about it here, but we should talk about it. Have some clear expectations. Or compromises."

"In case I have a _problem_ ," Mycroft says, voice so heavily laced with sarcasm that Sherlock would be jealous, "with you not wanting to announce this relationship in the Mirror?"

It's almost Pavlovian. Greg sees Mycroft's raised, judgemental eyebrow, his face tilted at a disbelieving angle, and he relaxes. Clearly, Mycroft's aware of something he thinks should be obvious. There's something big that Greg's missed but Mycroft considered long ago. "Okay, explain it in small words."

There's an amused pinch to Mycroft's lips, there and gone again. "Firstly, I am well aware there is nothing in your professional history that suggests you're anything other than straight."

"Were you actually looking for that?"

Mycroft nods. "You had started working with Sherlock. I wanted to be aware of any ulterior motives in play."

It takes Greg a moment to connect Sherlock and ulterior motives, and he feels himself wince at the idea of putting up with Sherlock Holmes for the sake of sex. Ignoring the fact that those cheekbones and long face secretly remind Greg of a praying mantis, or the fact that Sherlock is sulky and demanding, wanting what he wants when he wants it and he'd probably be just as selfish in bed, there's the staggering lack of professionalism.

"You know that had nothing to do with me getting Sherlock to help, right?"

"So I see," Mycroft says wonderingly, watching Greg very closely. "To be honest, I'd always assumed there was some--"

"God, no. No. Definitely not. I could never be drunk enough to find Sherlock appealing." Greg takes a sip of water and watches Mycroft's face shift from pleasantly surprised to bashfully pleased and then back to calm and attentive. "If that's first, what are the other points?"

"Secondly, there are relatively few people that know of my existence. There are even fewer that understand the--" there's the tiniest pause as Greg wonders if Mycroft will actually confirm something about his mysterious 'minor position', "--scope of my role. Of those that do, no good will come from drawing their attention to you."

Greg isn't a princess to be rescued, but he also isn't stupid enough to court danger without good reason. He doesn't need to know the whys and wherefores to accept it's a safety precaution.

"Thirdly, my family knows about you. So does my assistant. That is the extent of people who should be privy to my private life," Mycroft says. He toys with his wine glass and for a moment, Greg's distracted by watching those long fingers run up the fine stem of glass. "Now, why did you think this would be a problem?"

"You used to be married and I googled it. I can't see your ex pretending to be straight and why would you want to go from that to being somebody's secret?"

Even if there are good reasons, even if Mycroft doesn't mind, Greg still feels like he should. Like he should apologise or grovel.

"The social norms and sexual mores of the Old Vic are somewhat different to New Scotland Yard. It would be naive -- and short-sighted -- to pretend otherwise." Mycroft opens his menu and starts to read. "Also, I don't hold with the modern fixation on authenticity and honesty at all costs. It's a shallow rationalisation for gossip."

"You've thought about this?"

"Of course."

"And you don't mind?" Greg asks, to be certain, and gets another haughty eyebrow raise in response. "It's a big deal, Mycroft."

"It is a minor practicality, Gregory," Mycroft echoes back. "It doesn't bother you. After your divorce, you're more than happy to keep your personal life and your professional life as separate as possible. I don't understand why you would assume I'd feel differently."

That makes Greg stop. Because… he had assumed it would be a problem. Since he talked to Molly, since he had to consciously decide not to keep hedging his answers in vague pronouns, it's been worrying him. There's a lot of social pressure he doesn't want to deal with, but that's a reflection on him, not on how he feels about Mycroft. "You know, I think I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

He's been waiting for it to get difficult. He's been waiting for fireworks and explosive fights and makeup sex, and suddenly he's thinking about Jenny in a new light. Because it had been like that from the start: great nights out and occasional loud fights, and over the years that had died away. Settled into something indifferent, where he tried not ask why she was working late at the school and she stopped harassing him about answering his work phone at all hours. It was quieter and easier, as long as they both kept busy and didn't think about it.

"I've never been considered demonstrative," Mycroft says kindly, "if that's what you're waiting for."

"That's not what I meant," Greg says quickly. He knows Mycroft well enough to recognise that there's an old injury hiding under those words. They're both battle-scarred, carrying old wounds and sore points from fights long lost. "I've got no doubts that you care about me."

There's a split second of cautious surprise, and then Mycroft says, "But you do have doubts."

This is not a conversation he wants to have in a crowded restaurant, even if it is dimly lit and relatively private. Hell, this isn't a conversation he wants to have at all. "'Course I do. Everyone does."

Mycroft leans against the high back of his chair. His eyes flick across Greg, not seeing him but seeing a thousand tiny clues about him. Greg gets the same insect under a microscope feeling that makes his skin itch when Sherlock does it to him. He'd tell Mycroft not to do that, but he doesn't think the Holmes brothers could stop if they tried.

"Doubts," Mycroft declares, "but not significant enough that you want to end this."

There's a brunette waitress on the far side of the room, watching them and waiting for a cue that they're ready to order. She's clever enough not to come anywhere near them yet.

Greg shrugs and leans back in his own chair. "Normal doubts. About making this work after a failed marriage. About how this would work long-term because I'm set in my ways, and you're not exactly a pushover. A lot of this is new for me and you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"You can, actually," Mycroft says.

"What?"

"With the right positive reinforcement, you can teach an adult canine new commands. You wouldn't be able to adopt adult dogs if they weren't capable of learning new behaviours." Mycroft smiles. "Easier as a puppy, but far from impossible."

Greg almost laughs. It must be a Holmes thing: reassuring people through esoteric facts. "We should order."

"Yes," Mycroft says. "You'll enjoy the perch."

***

He doesn't see Mycroft for the next five days, and when he does, it's at Baker Street. Greg walks through the open door with a case file in his hand to find Mycroft sitting silently in one of the armchairs. His long legs are crossed at the knee, stretched out in an elegant line.

Sherlock is sitting opposite him, just as silent, with knees and elbows all at sharp angles and spine tirelessly straight. They're staring at each other, neither saying a word. Mycroft glances up at Greg and gives a small nod, but that's the only acknowledgement Greg gets.

He walks over to the sofa and sits beside John, who's reading a novel and ignoring the silent battle of wills. "What's going on?" Greg asks.

John grins and puts a marker in his book. "The usual. Mycroft has a job that Sherlock doesn't want to take. They've been like this for half an hour now."

Greg pulls a face. He wanted Sherlock's input on this case -- a stabbing with no signs of moving the body and no pool of blood is just weird -- but Mycroft wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. 

"So," John says with mischief in his tone, "Mycroft, huh?"

John's not usually nosey about other people's personal lives. "What about him?" Greg asks warily.

"Going well?" John has a great poker face but he lets out a small smile when Mycroft glances over briefly. Clearly, this isn't about catching up with a mate. This is about embarrassing Mycroft and forcing an end to the brothers' stalemate.

"I thought you were neutral," Greg mutters and John laughs.

"I live with one of them. I'm not neutral."

Sherlock doesn't look away from Mycroft but his mouth twists into a smug little smirk. Mycroft's response is a cold sneer, as if he doesn't care that Sherlock is someone's favourite.

Getting caught between them, playing mediator while they both pretend to be squabbling children, doesn't appeal to Greg. On the other hand, maybe Mycroft should know he's someone's favourite too.

"Okay, you two, I can't sit around here all day. Sherlock, I have a case for you."

"A boring one?" Sherlock asks dismissively.

"Post-mortem bruising says the body wasn't moved, but there's almost no blood at the scene."

Sherlock looks up, giving Greg his full attention. "Cause of death?"

"Four stab wounds to the abdomen."

The glee in Sherlock's eyes is unholy. "Oh, did they--"

"No," Greg interrupts, "take the job from your brother and then see me at the Yard."

Sherlock scowls. "You'll have solved it by then."

"We've got Ferris on forensics." Ferris is methodical but slow, and he doesn't like anything that deviates from expected patterns. The weird ones always make him hedge his bets, and suggest multiple possible explanations. Sometimes, Greg misses working with Anderson. At least Anderson tried to connect the dots, even if he didn't always get it right. "You've got time." 

Sherlock gives him a long, evaluating look and then nods. "Fine. John and I will come to the Yard. I'll do the legwork Mycroft's too lazy to do."

"It's the appearance of the matter, Sherlock," Mycroft says, tone measured and convincingly calm, if Greg ignores the tightness of his jaw. "I can't be seen to be directly involved."

It's probably not the first time Mycroft's said that but Sherlock's never worried about meeting other people's expectations.

"I've got to go," Greg says but he turns back when Mycroft speaks.

"Gregory," Mycroft says and Greg has a flash of Mycroft gasping the word, Mycroft's back pressed against him and his hands on Mycroft's warm skin. He remembers breathing in the sweetness of Mycroft's cologne and feeling Mycroft lose control. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well." Greg shrugs and hopes his thoughts don't show on his face. "Neutrality's overrated. I'll see you tonight?"

Mycroft's smile softens his entire face. "I'll meet you at Walker's."


End file.
